


forgot the f*cking macaroons

by horatioandophelia



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: ??? - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Paris, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, First Kiss, First Meetings, M/M, Macaroons, Nonbinary Jehan, Trains, engagement party planning, in this house we stan meet cutes, international law criminal tribunal, jehan is amazing, metro, sleeve tattoos, this is vile and tropey af
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:48:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24048442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horatioandophelia/pseuds/horatioandophelia
Summary: “What the hell,” deadpans Jehan, “is going on with you?”“Nothing,” says Grantaire. “I just - I think I just got a date with Blondie up there.”“Blondie? Who’s -- wait, that guy -- the lawyer? On the news?”“Yep,” beams Grantaire, popping the ‘p’.“No way!”Grantaire can’t stop the enormous smile that spreads across his face. “Uh-huh.”
Relationships: Combeferre & Enjolras (Les Misérables), Combeferre & Marius Pontmercy, Courfeyrac/Jean Prouvaire, Enjolras & Marius Pontmercy, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Grantaire & Jean Prouvaire, Grantaire & Éponine Thénardier
Comments: 13
Kudos: 139





	forgot the f*cking macaroons

Grantaire clutches his duffel bag stronger than is strictly necessary, staring at the train timetables illuminated on the gigantic screens above him, but he can’t seem to help it. Someone brushes past him, jostling his elbow and muttering something in Arabic into a shiny black smartphone, and he jumps. Here, he is distinctly aware of how scruffy he looks, surrounded by sleek businessmen and well-fed tourists - he knows that a broke English student won’t attract any attention, but he still feels self-conscious. His green sweatshirt is frayed at every edge, and he hasn’t shaved in… a while. He rubs his face ruefully and adjusts his beanie, trying to hide how long it’s been since he got a haircut.

_ “Now boarding train to Paris, first class only,”  _ calls a woman’s calm voice in French, blaring through the intercoms.  _ “Please collect your belongings and begin boarding as soon as your class is called.” _

Grantaire takes a deep breath, glancing around the packed Amsterdam station, overwhelmed. There are people everywhere, in all sorts of colors and in all states of exhaustion. He can smell coffee, spices, and cheap fast food. On a bench near him, an old man is sleeping; next to him, a woman in a burqa is reading a newspaper. People are calling out to each other. A couple of German girls are holding hands and laughing, pigeons flying high above their heads. 

Glancing down, he sees his other hand clutching his ticket, damp and bent from the sweat of his palms. He tries to relax his grip. It’s not like it’s the first time he’s been to Paris - Jehan and Courfeyrac and Bahorel all live here, he’s visited - but it is the first time he’s ever been alone. He’s painfully aware that he doesn’t speak any of the languages dancing in the air all around him, except his rudimentary French. 

_ “Now boarding all classes,”  _ says the woman’s voice.  _ “Departure is in fifteen minutes.” _

Taking a deep breath, he steps up into the third-class car.

  
  
  
  


Enjolras has never really been comfortable in suits, but he loves the way no one ever asks him questions when he wears them. He settles into his seat, reaching into his bag and pulling out his copy of  _ War and Peace.  _ Not his favorite, but inconspicuous enough to go unnoticed and highbrow enough to keep people from talking to him. 

_ It’s okay to say hi to people, Enjolras,  _ he can hear Combeferre saying as he tries to recall which Rostov is having problems in the current chapter.  _ It won’t compromise what you do for a living. Loosen up a little.  _

Sighing through his nose, he snaps the book shut and looks up just as a scruffy-looking man steps into the car, clutching a beaten-up duffel bag. Enjolras almost dismisses him, but then he notices the man’s fingers are covered in paint, a hundred different colors, and he pauses. 

The man - he can’t be much older than Enjolras, maybe 26 or 27 - is well-built, with curling black hair that’s doing its best to escape the ragged brown beanie jammed on his head. His nose looks like it’s been broken a few times, but his jaw is square and strong, and Enjolras finds himself staring. The man hesitates by the luggage rack, obviously sensing his gaze, and turns to look at him, his eyes widening when he sees Enjolras. Enjolras snaps his gaze to the window, biting the inside of his cheek. He reopens  _ War and Peace  _ randomly, and determinedly tries to focus on Napoleon's campaign through Russia.

There’s a rustle from the empty seat across from him, and he looks up.

The scruffy man is sitting across from him. He has the most intense black eyes that Enjolras has ever seen, and he’s watching Enjolras nervously.

“This seat taken?” he says in English. He looks ready to stand and bolt if Enjolras shows so much as a hint of saying yes.

“No,” says Enjolras firmly. “Please,” he adds, gesturing, when the man still looks uncertain.

“Okay,” the man says softly. “Thanks.”

Enjolras nods, trying not to stare, but he can’t seem to think straight suddenly. The scruffy man is wearing scarlet trainers; his jeans are stained with acrylics, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in days. He’s painted his nails gold and green and he has an intricate tattoo on his neck, peeking out from the collar of his sweatshirt.

He looks like the kind of freedom that Enjolras hasn’t experienced in years. Enjolras swallows the urge to ask this stranger to divulge his entire life story. Or fuck him in the traincar toilet. 

Enjolras pulls at his starched collar and tries not to think about just how  _ long  _ it’s been. 

  
  
  


_ Nothing much happening here,  _ Grantaire envisions writing to Jehan as he tries not to stare at the blond (businessman? lawyer? secret agent?) five feet away.  _ Just sitting across from the most beautiful human alive, but that’s all.  _

He clears his throat, shifting in his seat. He had been planning to pass out as soon as he sat down, but that’s out the window - his heart’s racing and he’s sweating more than he’s comfortable with admitting. The blond is reading a massive volume, but he doesn’t look sold on it, and maybe it’s because Grantaire’s jetlagged out of his mind, or maybe he’s metaphorically kneeling to worship before some kind of archangel, but he blurts out:

“You don’t look like you’re actually enjoying that.” 

And then promptly turns beet red.

The blond man looks up, frowning, and then softens. “I’m really not, actually,” he says in a precise French accent. “I’m never quite sure why, but I could never really fall in love with Tolstoy the way some people can.” He smiles slightly, holding it up so Grantaire can read  _ War and Peace  _ scrawled in careful gold across the cover, and Grantaire is inexplicably enchanted. 

“I’d think you’d be required not to like something that’s so harsh against Napoléon,” says Grantaire, thinking out loud. “Since you sound French and all.”

Blondie’s eyes snap and for a moment he looks like he’s about to start throwing punches. Grantaire opens his mouth to say something, anything, but then Blondie clenches his jaw and swallows. “I don’t like Napoléon,” he says tightly.

“No?” says Grantaire lightly, wondering how he can get that look back on Blondie’s face because it’s  _ so hot.  _ “Don’t you think he improved France’s infrastructure quite a bit, though? Education? All that?”

Blondie looks incredulous. “Absolutely not. Nothing that that tyrant did is worth remembering, he was a despot. How can you say so?”

Grantaire grins. “I myself,” he says, stepping joyfully into the wildfire. “Am quite a fan of the way Napoléon exploited the madness of the French Revolution to rise to power. Pretty amazing. I think he deserves everybody’s respect.”

The blond’s jaw clenches, his eyes narrow, his nostrils flare, and suddenly Grantaire is looking at an avenging Achilles. His breath catches, he can’t move. 

Blondie swallows and says, “I’m a human rights lawyer. If Napoléon was alive today, the International Criminal Court would be trying him for crimes against humanity, and I’d lead the prosecution myself.”

“Huh. That’s pretty interesting - I have a couple friends in human rights here, they love it,” says Grantaire. “As it was, Napoleon led France to glory and international fame. Not sure if France would have prosecuted him for that.”

“That’s because the French were blinded by the propaganda that Napoléon used to keep them subjugated,” grinds out the blond, his accent getting stronger. 

“Hmm,” says Grantaire. “I’ll give you that.” Blondie blinks, looking slightly mollified, and Grantaire is electric and exhausted and falling in love. 

“So,” he continues. “Human rights lawyer? Are you gonna save the world, then?”

The blond man smirks ruefully. “I’m going to try. I’m Enjolras, by the way.” He holds out his hand.

Grantaire grins. “Grantaire,” he says, shaking it. “Where are you off to this fine morning?”

  
  
  


Enjolras can’t figure this man out. He’s obviously intelligent enough to know that Hobbes supports archaic, totalitarian systems of government that abuse peoples’ rights - and yet, here he is, arguing in favor of them. Enjolras hasn’t been this wound up in ages, but he’s throwing all restraint out the window, not even trying to stay detached and collected. He doesn’t want to admit to himself that he’s enjoying this more than he can remember enjoying anything in a long time. 

All the same, this is ridiculous.

The man - Grantaire - is smirking at him. “Well?” he says.

Enjolras clenches his jaw, looking out the window. “I’m - I shouldn’t even have to explain what is wrong with - ” He breaks off, fuming.

Grantaire lets out a beautiful laugh, pulling off his beanie and running his fingers through his hair in a carefree motion. He stands, rolling his shoulders; Enjolras watches as the muscles move under his sweatshirt. 

“I’m going to get an espresso, if you’d like one,” he says. He’s beaming at Enjolras, and Enjolras has forgotten how to speak.

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “So… you wouldn’t like one?”

“Uh, n-no,” stammers Enjolras quickly. “Thank you.”

Grantaire nods, smiles at him, and turns towards the dining car.

Enjolras can’t take his eyes off of him.

  
  
  


Aside from the fact that this conversation has jumped from the importance of samurai in Japanese culture to the inherent Western bias of World Heritage sites, Grantaire is worried about the safety of the cutlery. Enjolras apparently has the habit of gesturing wildly with his fork and coffee cup, and he’s been perilously close to flinging pasta at more than one point. Needless to say, Grantaire himself is no better. He’s pretty sure he has marinara in his hair from running his hands through it like he does when he’s riled up about something. They can’t seem to run out of things to talk about; they’ve leapt from subject to subject with amazing ease, and Grantaire can’t get enough of it. Enough of Enjolras. He has a vague, startling notion that he’s somehow been asleep, or dead, or broken for a long time, and is only just now starting to wake up sitting across from this human wonder. 

The sun is setting over the countryside that’s rushing past them, and suddenly the calm woman’s voice interrupts Enjolras’s impromptu dissertation on Russian revolutionary propaganda:  _ “Paris Gare du Nord, ten minutes.” _ They both jump, looking at the speaker in the ceiling. Enjolras’s eyes meet his, suddenly wide and vulnerable. “Ten minutes,” he says softly. 

Grantaire swallows, trying to smile. “Well,” he says, trying to break himself away. “That was some of the best conversation I’ve had in a long time.”

Enjolras nods, clenching his jaw again. “Yes, it was. Thank you.”

“Where are you going once we arrive?” asks Grantaire, feeling himself retreating back to sleep, back to the grey life he’s so well-acquainted with.

“My hotel, then the embassy for dinner,” says Enjolras tiredly. “And trying a case. And then again tomorrow, and the day after that.”

Grantaire tries to smile. “Sounds lovely. I hope you have a good time. I’m going to be doing lots of dreadful, touristy things. The Louvre, the Bastille, all that.” Enjolras looks at him. He knows he must look ridiculously bereft, but oddly enough, Enjolras looks heartbroken too. 

As he’s turning towards the luggage rack to grab his dilapidated duffel, he hears Enjolras say, “Can I give you my mobile? In case I have time to meet you in the city before you go back home?” 

Grantaire’s head snaps back to him, entirely of its own volition. “Wh-- Me?”

Enjolras frowns, then lets out a laugh. “Yes, you.”

Grantaire nods wildly. “Y-yeah,” he stammers. “If you’re free, like, anytime that you’re here, just - just call me. Or text me. Whichever. Whenever.” Which sounds desperate as all hell, but he’s a little too thrilled at the prospect of seeing Enjolras to care very much. He’ll only be in Paris for a few days, what does he have to lose? 

“I will,” says Enjolras, handing him a sleek white iPhone. 

Grantaire takes it, raising an eyebrow. “Isn’t this a little bourgeois for a man of the people?” he says, just to see Enjolras’s nostrils flare. 

“Don’t,” says Enjolras darkly. “It’s my work phone, I didn’t get a choice. I lost my other one at a prot-- I mean, at a social gathering.”

Grantaire nods, biting his lip to hide a smile. “Social gathering,” he echoes.

“Yes,” says Enjolras a little too fiercely, daring Grantaire to push further.

Grantaire can’t hide his grin any longer, it spreads so wide that his face hurts from it. He quickly types his number in, hands the phone back to Enjolras.  _ “Please  _ call me if you’re free,” he says. “I mean it.” 

He grabs his duffle, chuckling softly. He has to get off this train car before he does something idiotic, like grab Enjolras by the collar and kiss him stupid. He takes one last look back as he steps off the train, waving. Enjolras, strangely flushed, waves back, smiling.

  
  


Enjolras watches Grantaire exit the train car, merrily swinging his duffle over his shoulder with paint-stained hands as he crosses the platform, all grace and strength and god _ damn.  _ He realizes that everyone is leaving the car and stands, blinking rapidly for a moment, disoriented. Who  _ was  _ that man? He pulls his suitcase off the luggage rack as he leaves the train car, breathing in the cigarette-stained air of the platform and collecting himself. He has to focus.

His iPhone vibrates. 

_ Combeferre: Did you arrive ? _

_ You: Yes. Getting a taxi now.  _

_ Combeferre: Marius wants to go over the case once you get here. We’re in the cafe on the ground floor of the hotel. See you soon. _

Enjolras sighs, pulling his coat closer around him. There’s no mercy in the profession he’s chosen; it consumes every second of his time, and he’s been quite happy to subsume his own desires in favor of the greater issues of humanity in the past, but now it seems like instead of having great self-control, he’s just never met a desire strong enough to pull him away from the importance of his work… 

He thinks he sees a curly black head amongst the various tourists jostling in the queue for the exit, but he blinks, and it’s gone. 

  
  
  


Grantaire is well and properly drunk at a pub somewhere near the Pont Saint-Michel when he realizes that his phone is buzzing.

_ Incoming call from: Jehan _

“Helloooo,” says Grantaire into the mouthpiece, before he notices that he’s neglected to press the green ‘accept call’ button. _ Damn, you are drunk as fuck. _ He giggles, then taps it. 

“Hey, J,” he says. “How’s it going?”

“R, are you coming to the apartment tonight? We’re going to hang out and smoke if you want to stop by,” says Jehan on the other end. “I know you were going to come by tomorrow, but we’re all here tonight and I know you said you might make it.”

“Oh, shit,” mutters Grantaire. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. He thinks he has a hostel reservation somewhere, but he can’t remember. “Uh, yeah, I’d love to.” He frowns. “What time is it?”

“It’s 22h30,” says Jehan, a smile in their voice. “You got drunk early this evening.”

“I’m not that drunk!” protests Grantaire, the whine in his voice betraying him.

Jehan laughs. “Take the Metro, don’t walk,” they say. “It’s getting cold.”

“Yes, Mum,” says Grantaire, not even trying to hide how drunk he is. 

“It’s Pere Lachaise,” Jehan says. “The Gallieni line.”

“I  _ remember,”  _ says Grantaire. “How dare you.”

“Did you, though?” comes Jehan’s voice after a moment, affectionately skeptical.

“No,” says Grantaire, unable to keep himself from smiling. “Thank you. See you soon.”

  
  
  


Enjolras is trying to focus, honestly, but it’s nearly 23h and he’s struggling. It’s obvious that their argument is sound, Marius is just being over-cautious because he’s new and nervous. 

Combeferre has given him several severe looks because he’s been a little on edge, and apparently Marius needs more support than he’s been giving, but in all honesty, he just wants to get back to his hotel room and maybe text Grantaire, which is ridiculous, he’s a twenty-six year old man, not a schoolgirl with a crush, but he can’t help the feeling that --

“E, what do you think of that point? Is it relevant?” Combeferre’s voice breaks through his reverie. 

“Uh,” he says.  _ What? _

Combeferre is clearly trying not to roll his eyes. Marius’s eyes are darting over the evidence; obviously, Enjolras’s opinion doesn’t hold nearly as much weight as his own anxieties. Combeferre turns to him, laying a reassuring hand on his shoulder. 

“It’s going to be fine, Marius,” he says. “We’ve got an excellent set of evidence here and Enjolras and I have run the gauntlet before so we’ll have your back. Won’t we?” he adds, turning to Enjolras.

“Oh, um, yes. Of course,” says Enjolras lamely.

Combeferre does roll his eyes this time, turning back to Marius. 

Enjolras pulls out his phone and opens his contacts, searching for Grantaire’s name. He starts composing a text, beginning with  _ Hello, this is Enjolras.  _

He’s still typing when Combeferre’s voice catches him off-guard. “What’s going on with you, E?” he asks, mildly exasperated. Marius turns to look at him.

“Nothing,” he says. “Sorry.” He shoves his phone in his pocket. “What about Article IV? Did we reference that in regard to this part here?”

Marius shakes his head. “No, but should we? I was only thinking…” 

  
  
  


By the time Grantaire gets to Jehan’s tiny apartment it’s just past midnight and he can hear the speakers blasting a Ninho single from the bottom of the tiny cement staircase. He has to focus to make sure he doesn’t tumble down the steps - it’s dark as hell and he’s drunker than he cares to admit. He reaches number 18, not needing to squint at the rusted numbers on the door - from the smell of weed and the pounding beat, it’s clearly the right place. 

“Hey, open up!” he calls, pounding on the door. “It’s me, and I brought booze!”

Jehan whips open the door, their entire torso covered in glitter. “R!” they cry, throwing their arms around him. “It’s so good to see you!”

Grantaire laughs. “Ditto. I brought vodka. And a kickass attitude. Can I put my duffle someplace?”

“Yeah,” says Jehan, stepping back. “Here, let’s put it in my room since Courf’s got work tomorrow morning and he’s already in bed.”

“Damn, what a loser,” says Grantaire. 

“I know,” says Jehan, shaking his head fondly. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with him. But Baz and Musichetta and Joly are here, and a few other people you don’t know. Here, I’ll introduce you!”

He’s dragged through Jehan’s tiny apartment to meet an inordinate number of people. There’s a blond girl named Cosette, a violently refined man who goes only by Montparnasse (Grantaire gets the strong impression that Montparnasse is a  _ casseur _ ), and a punctilious student named Joly, among others he can’t remember. He likes all of them - unsurprising, since Jehan’s taste in people is impeccable - but he immediately takes to a girl named Eponine, whose sense of humor is the only thing darker than her eyeliner. Her smokey laugh seals the deal, and within fifteen minutes they’re trading black-out horror stories and sharing a joint like old friends. 

It’s three in the morning before Grantaire registers that things are winding down. Jehan offers him the couch, but he turns it down and grabs a blanket from the tiny hall closet so Eponine can sleep there instead - she’s already curled up on one side. Jehan drapes a massive green comforter over her gently on their way through the living room. She murmurs a thank-you, already half asleep, and Grantaire settles into his corner, curling up against the radiator.

“All good, R?” asks Jehan softly from the kitchen, where they’re gently putting glasses in the sink, making sure they don’t clink together. “I’m going to head to bed in just a minute.”

“Yeah,” says Grantaire. His face hurts from smiling so much tonight. He’s still pleasantly buzzed and just high enough that he knows he’ll sleep well tonight no matter how hard the floor might be. “Tonight was so much fun, J, thank you so much.”

Jehan smiles at him, pausing. “Of course, R, you’re always welcome here. I’m so glad you could come,” they say.

“Me, too.” 

He can hear the sound of cars driving past on the street below; the stars are bright from the window next to him even though they’re in the heart of the city. He’s so lucky to be alive.

“Okay,” says Jehan, drying their hands on a tea towel and waving at him, stepping carefully over a few sleeping figures on their way to their room. “Good night, dear.”

“Night,” replies Grantaire, blissful. He snuggles down, vaguely registering that he can’t remember where he put his phone.

  
  
  


Grantaire wakes with a groan; the first thing he registers is that his back is  _ killing  _ him. 

The second is the smell of coffee. The radiator behind him is warm, and there’s soft classical music coming from somewhere to his left. He sits up, dragging a hand down his face and squinting at the sunlight streaming through the windows. 

“Morning!” says Jehan brightly from the stove, where they’re busy stirring a skillet full of scrambled eggs. “You’re just in time, Courf’s on the news!”

“What?” croaks Grantaire, swivelling his head towards the television on the wall. It’s a miracle that it survived the night; he distinctly remembers someone (he glances suspiciously at the green lump on the couch that is Eponine) drunkenly hurling a Wii remote at it after losing at Just Dance IV. Onscreen, none other than Courfeyrac, holding a microphone, is speaking in French, slowly enough that Grantaire can understand him despite his distinct lack of fluency. Courfeyrac looks very posh and adult in his grey suit, and Grantaire smirks to himself, remembering a few years ago when that same Courfeyrac was epically drunk, crying about the mere idea of baby dolphins on the bathroom floor of a club in Belfast.

_ “And back to the international criminal court, where  _ avocat _ M. Combeferre, partner to the just-seen M. Pontmercy, continues to recite evidence on behalf of victims of the atrocities committed recently in the war-torn -- ” _

“He looks good, doesn’t he?” says Jehan proudly, beaming at the television screen. 

“Yeah,” says Grantaire. “Just for the record, you two are…?”

“Madly in love,” sings Jehan cheerily. One of the blanket-covered figures on the floor groans at the sound, and Jehan gently murmurs something like  _ oh, hush  _ in its general direction. 

“Finally,” mutters Grantaire. Jehan blushes at the scrambled eggs.

_ “And now to continue in the presentation of evidence for the next group of victims on behalf of the prosecution, M. Jean Enjolras, a graduate of the Sorbonne, who also worked in -- ” _

“Wait,” says Grantaire. 

“Hmm?” queries Jehan, but Grantaire hardly hears them. 

He’d recognize the truculent expression on that angelic face anywhere - the blond curls are only a confirmation. 

It’s Enjolras.

He’s still gaping at the screen when Eponine groans, shifts, and sits up on the couch, hair sticking up everywhere. “What am I laying on?” she mumbles, twisting her shoulder to pull Grantaire’s phone from beneath her shoulder. “Here’s your phone,” she says, extending it out towards him. He grasps it, not taking his eyes off of the screen, but Eponine doesn’t seem to care; she flops back down and yanks the green afghan back over her head, completely obscuring herself from view. 

The cameras pan away from Enjolras, and only then does Grantaire blink, turning to Jehan to whisper-shout, “I  _ know  _ that guy! Oh my God, I know him! I  _ know  _ him!”

Jehan frowns. “What are you, Buddy the Elf? And what do you mean, you know him?”

Grantaire bursts into unbelieving laughter. “I sat next to him on the train here! I gave him my -- ” He looks down at his phone. 

_ 1 new message from: Unknown number _

“Oh my  _ God, _ ” he whispers. 

“Okay,” says Jehan a little crossly. “You’re not really making any sense, but the eggs are done. Do you want some?”

“Yeah,” says Grantaire automatically, eyes glued to his phone screen. “Just give me a second.”

_ Unknown number: Hello, this is Enjolras. I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to meet up tonight but I think tomorrow night I may be free if you are available ? _

Unable to contain himself, Grantaire punches the air. “Ha!”

“What the hell,” deadpans Jehan, “is going on with you?”

“Nothing,” says Grantaire. “I just - I think I just got a date with Blondie up there.”

“Blondie? Who’s -- wait, that guy -- the  _ lawyer?  _ On the _ news?” _

“Yep,” beams Grantaire, popping the ‘p’.

“No way!” 

Grantaire can’t stop the enormous smile that spreads across his face. “Uh-huh.” 

He frantically types  _ yes of course that sounds great, let me know when you’re free  _ and hits send before he can talk himself out of it.

Onscreen, Courfeyrac is back in front of the courtroom. The prosecution is seated just behind him. He’s saying something that Grantaire is sure is vitally important to the case, but Grantaire’s eyes are glued to the blond figure who’s currently in deep conversation with some brown-haired bespectacled man. As Grantaire watches, something clearly distracts Enjolras from what he’s saying: he pauses, frowns, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out his phone, then smiles and begins to type. Grantaire doesn’t dare, doesn’t even remotely dare to hope --

_ Unknown number: Of course. I will probably be free around 19h this evening. We can decide on a restaurant closer to then ? _

Grantaire almost passes out. But before succumbing to the overwhelming madness of reality, he saves the number as “Blondie” in his contacts and sends back an  _ ok great. _

  
  
  


“You,” stammers Combeferre, staring at him from the corner chair of the hotel room, agog. “You - you have a date? As in, you asked out an actual person?  _ You?” _

Enjolras closes his eyes and tries not to sigh impatiently. “Yes.”

“Have you been  _ drugged?” _

Enjolras shoots him a look. “Shut up.”

“Well,” says Combeferre, apparently at a loss for words. “Tell me about him, I guess. Really? A  _ date?” _

“His name’s Grantaire and he has black eyes and his hands are covered in paint and he likes Voltaire,” says Enjolras, staring down at his suitcase and feverishly wishing that he’d packed something other than white shirts and black slacks. “He’s… cool.”

“Sounds like it,” says Combeferre, raising his eyebrows. “Where are you going?”

“No idea. Do you have any ideas? Also, do you have a t-shirt I could borrow? Something that doesn’t scream  _ I talked about international crime litigation all day?” _

“Let me look,” says Combeferre, reaching towards his own suitcase. “But honestly,” he continues, unzipping the top. “What are you looking for here? Clearly, it can’t go anywhere. You’re both leaving Paris within the week. Are you just looking for something quick and fun?”

Enjolras frowns. “No.”

“Do you think he knows that? I mean, if I were him - given the circumstances - I might think this was just a one night stand kind of thing. Hell, he might not even think this is a date.”

Enjolras swallows. “Um.”

Combeferre stops rifling through his clothes. “Shit, Enjolras, I’m sorry,” he says kindly. “I’m barraging you. Sometimes I forget how little you’ve done this.” 

Enjolras glares at him. “I’ve gone on dates!”

“Yeah, I know, but… Okay, if I were you, I’d just go with the flow. See where the evening takes you, and just try to enjoy it.”

Enjolras nods.

“And try this on,” adds Combeferre, shoving a shirt at him. “It’ll bring out your eyes.”

  
  
  


“Okay, clearly this is the most incredible hookup situation that has ever happened, and I am so impressed,” says Eponine, still ensconced in the green afghan but upright enough to hold her coffee cup to her chest between sips. “Honestly though, he’s really hot, you’re lucky.”

“Yeah,” says Grantaire, trying to quash the disappointment rising in his chest. “He is. He’s brilliant, too, holy shit.”

“How do you know he won’t be looking for something more serious?” asks Jehan from the kitchen. “It could be more than just a hookup.”

Grantaire glares at him. “Jehan,” he deadpans, gesturing at himself. “Come on.”

Jehan glares right back. “I said what I said.”

“Plus, he’s leaving town as soon as the case finishes!”

“I don’t know you at all,” interjects Eponine. “But I agree with Jehan, because like, objectively, you’re definitely relationship material.” Grantaire scoffs, and she frowns. “Who gave up the couch for a complete stranger last night, me or you?” He sighs, and she smirks at him. “Anyway, what I was going to say is that, while you’re a great candidate, the odds aren’t really stacked in your favor. Maybe make the best of it while you can?”

Grantaire nods.  _ Right. Make the best of it. _

  
  


Enjolras takes the subway to the restaurant - a nice place, out of the way of most of the tourist attractions but still within the 7th  _ arrondissement.  _ The concierge at his hotel gave him a strange look when he asked where the nearest Metro station was, but the subway gives him time to think and zone out for just a few moments. There’s something so comforting about the rocking of the train and the strict anonymity of it all.

As he strolls towards the restaurant in what definitely isn’t his clothing, Grantaire is standing outside, surrounded by blossoming flowers, smoking a cigarette. He looks like he’s slept very little since Enjolras last saw him, but he’s brushed his hair and he’s wearing a nice shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Enjolras notices that what he saw on the train wasn’t all paint stains; Grantaire has a sleeve of tattoos, vines and roses and flames and fish climbing gracefully up his forearm and disappearing into his shirt. 

“Hello,” he says, and Grantaire jumps. 

“Hi!” he says, voice cracking. He clears his throat. “Hi,” he repeats, smiling a little. Enjolras smiles back. 

“I’m so glad we could meet up,” he says. “I wasn’t sure if you were going to be free.”  
“Me!” says Grantaire, laughing ruefully. “Busy? I’m not the one trying people for war crimes in the international courts.”

Enjolras ducks his head. “Oh,” he says. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.” 

“Nonono, it’s cool!” Grantaire blurts. “It’s great, I’m just… Sorry. Just wildly intimidated. I mean, I saw you on the news this morning.” 

Enjolras nods. “A little bit weird, I’m sure.”

“Yeah,” says Grantaire, nodding fervently. “Definitely weird. But still, it got me thinking, how has the law changed for international cases now that so many countries are reverting back to nationalism? Have you seen an impact in the international courts?”

Enjolras, with a desire that suddenly strikes him as indistinguishable from the sight Grantaire himself, wants to grab him by his messy curls and kiss him until he can’t stand up straight. 

  
  
  


Grantaire is sweating like a pig. They’ve finished dinner and they’re standing on the goddamned Pont de la Concorde watching the sun set over the city like some sort of couple, and Enjolras is waxing eloquent about  _ l'Assemblee Nationale  _ opposite them, and suddenly Grantaire can’t breathe. 

“Hang - hang on,” he interrupts, and Enjolras, being the class fucking act that he apparently is, stops immediately. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, and Grantaire’s hands clench around nothing.

“I’m not,” he says haltingly. “I’m not going to have sex with you tonight.”

Enjolras checks, his shoulders stiffen. “Grantaire, I had no intention of -- ”

“I know! I know you didn’t!” cries Grantaire. “In fact, if you did, I probably would have. I just - I like you a lot. And it doesn’t make sense - I should want to sleep with you if I like you, right? I just can’t do it if it doesn’t - if I can’t -- ”

Enjolras takes a deep breath next to him; Grantaire hears it like a calming wave. “Grantaire,” he says. “I’m sorry. I can’t give you anything, I have nothing to offer you.”

Grantaire smiles miserably. “You have everything to offer,” he says. “There’s just no time.” Enjolras threads their fingers together and Grantaire’s throat is so full he can’t speak. 

“With any luck,” Enjolras says gently. “That fool in Downing Street will make such a large mistake that I’ll have to come and defend the good people of Britain. Brexit has great potential to create a wonderful movement if enough people put their names to it.”

“Can’t come a moment too soon,” mutters Grantaire fervently. “Good God.”

“Let’s just be, for now,” says Enjolras. “Are there any cinemas open now? Or we could go to a bar, I suppose, only I can’t drink very much since I have court tomorrow.”

Grantaire takes a deep breath. “Let’s just - let’s just be tourists,” he says, making a face, and Enjolras laughs. “And just walk. Let’s just walk.”

“Alright,” says Enjolras, gentle and golden. His eyes are nearly glowing from their proximity to the fading sunlight on the water. He’s beautiful. Grantaire’s heart is breaking.

“Come on,” he says hoarsely, pulling Enjolras across the bridge by their entwined hands. “What were you saying about  _ l’Assemblee Nationale _ again?”

  
  
  


Enjolras closes his eyes, breathing in through his nose, trying to center himself, crumbling his croissant into buttery nothingness on his plate. It has always been difficult when things go awry in his personal life to focus on cases, harder to pull himself into one cohesive piece, to embody the high-functioning, whip-smart lawyer that everyone thinks he is. 

It’s a beautiful morning, the sun streaming through the open windows of the cafe at the base of the hotel, but he can hardly appreciate it. He thinks back to the night before, the early morning of stale cigarette smoke and the faint sound of music from still-open bars. The pale hint of the sunrise over the river, how cold Grantaire’s hands were on his face when he kissed him goodbye softly, only once. The strange grief of watching him walk away, wondering just how much someone could mean to him after forty-eight hours of nothing more than holding hands. And he never thought that liking someone could be so  _ personal, _ that liking Grantaire was so much more than thinking he was just physically attractive. In fact, he has a sneaking suspicion that perhaps this is what has always gone wrong before, because he’s  _ never  _ felt so in-tune with another human being. Is this what Marius meant when he talked about Cosette? This longing for someone else’s soul and mind and brain and body, all of it, always?

He notices that Combeferre is watching him over his espresso, and he throws a tight smile across the table. 

“Morning,” says Marius, walking up to them carrying a newspaper and looking like he actually slept last night. He’s  _ smiling.  _ Enjolras tries not to glare. “I got some news.”

“Hmm?” asks Combeferre, taking a bite of his own croissant.

“We’ve been doing so well that they’re abridging the court time, they don’t think it’ll take as long as they originally thought - they’ve said we’ve produced sufficient evidence already. I  _ knew  _ that that part about Article IV was going to come in handy, one of the judges specifically came up to me yesterday and said that it was, and I’m quoting, a ‘definitive moment’ for the --”

“Wait, wait,” interrupts Combeferre, frowning as he sets down his croissant. “What does that mean? Are we leaving early, then?” 

“Yes!” says Marius, beaming. “They arranged our tickets and everything, we’re checking out of the hotel this morning. I honestly can’t believe it. It’s been so amazing, this whole thing, I can’t wait to tell Cosette! She was so supportive, and I can’t begin to tell you how many times…” 

Enjolras looks down at his plate, covered in miserably torn-up pieces of his uneaten croissant.  _ Shit.  _ He has to call Grantaire.

“I’ll be right back,” he says. Marius, not noticing, happily continues to ramble about Cosette, but Combeferre nods, looking sympathetic.

  
  
  


“And so we went down to the waterfront and just walked all along the Seine for the next five hours and talked about a bunch of random shit, I don’t even know,” says Grantaire, clutching his margarita like a lifeline while Jehan rubs his back. “And he called me right before court this morning and said that the case is wrapping up sooner than they were expecting, they’re literally done with their part of the case today, and I probably won’t be able to see him again before he leaves. So.”

“Damn,” says Eponine softly. “I’m sorry, man.”

“Thanks,” says Grantaire, smiling miserably. “It’s ridiculous, honestly. It shouldn’t be this big of a deal anyway.”

“No, I disagree,” says Jehan. “I’ve never seen you like this, R. You’re not one to be swept away. I’m normally the one who’s convincing you that something’s worth your time.”  
“Like art school?” says Grantaire. “And talking to my mom again? Staying alive sophomore year?”

Jehan smiles sadly. “Yeah. And I’ve never seen you like this over a person. Normally you only get sappy about, like, opera. Or Rembrandt.”

Eponine snorts, and Grantaire shoots her a dirty look before reluctantly laughing himself. “I’m never going to see him again, am I?” he says to nobody in particular. 

Eponine just looks at him for a moment before grabbing the margarita pitcher and refilling his glass, and Jehan starts rubbing his back again.

  
  


SIX MONTHS LATER

“Yeah, Cosette’s boyfriend is proposing to her tonight at her birthday party, and I’d really appreciate it if you could swing by and help out with setting it all up since you’re in town now,” says Jehan. “If not, it’s totally fine. I know you’re super busy with moving and everything.”

“No, I’ll definitely be there,” says Grantaire through gritted teeth as he tries not to rip an entire box apart because the  _ stupid packing tape is so fucking sticky -- _

“Awesome! I’m kind of nervous, I’ve never hosted a party with a proposal in it before,” says Jehan. “If she says no I’m afraid I’ll get a bad review on Google or something.”

“I’m really glad you invited me,” says Grantaire, propping the phone against his ear with his shoulder. “If I have to unpack one more box, I might actually lose my mind. What do you think of Cosette’s boyfriend? Does he deserve her?”

“I don’t really know Marius that well,” confides Jehan. “But he seemed really nervous about asking her, and he kept going on and on about how wonderful she is. I think I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that he might possibly be good enough for her.”

“Okay, but he’s on thin fucking ice,” says Grantaire. “Cosette is a gift from the gods.”

“If he hurts her in any remotely small way we’re all under oath to take him out behind the Musain and beat the shit out of him,” replies Jehan amiably. “But honestly, I’m just ready for it to start. We’re all meeting at my place at 17h to set it up. Don’t bring anything except your kickass attitude, my darling.”

“Come on, J,” says Grantaire, setting the box down. “That’s just rude. I have to bring  _ something _ . How about macaroons? Or champagne? Do you need a party llama?”

Jehan laughs. “I’ve missed you, R.”

“Me, too. So what am I bringing? Macaroons or a llama?”

“Fine.” Grantaire can hear the smile in their voice. “Macaroons. I’ve got to run, Courf’s making punch and I want to make sure it isn’t strong enough to kill on contact. See you soon!”

Grantaire smiles. “See you soon.”

  
  
  


“I can’t believe you’re not stupidly excited about going to this splendid party where Marius is finally proposing to the angelically perfect love of his life,” deadpans Combeferre as he pulls on his socks.

“I  _ am,”  _ says Enjolras petulantly from Combeferre’s cluttered desk, where he’s trying to do some last-minute work before they leave for Marius’s girlfriend’s birthday party. How Marius has a girlfriend still baffles Enjolras, over a year later. “I just get tired of hearing him go  _ on and on  _ about it.”

“We all are, Enj. But look on the bright side: once this is over with, we can finally get him to focus on expanding the firm with us,” says Combeferre.

“I’m so glad we went independent, Ferre. I was getting really tired of fifteen hour days.”

“No kidding. Honestly, I think it’s set up to succeed. If we can get just a couple more clients, I think we’ll really have a solid base and then we can -- ”

“What if she says  _ no?” _ Marius wails, throwing the door open, his shirt half-buttoned and gaping open. “What if she doesn’t want to marry me? What will I  _ do?” _

Enjolras closes his eyes, praying for patience. From the other side of the room, Combeferre sighs.   
“Marius, we’ve been through this. She’s going to say yes.”

“But what if she  _ doesn’t?” _

Combeferre and Enjolras sigh in unison.

  
  
  


“Holy  _ shit!”  _ cries Grantaire, in the middle of slicing the enormous charcuterie plate. “I forgot the fucking macaroons!” They’re already in full preparation swing; Eponine is upstairs doing Cosette’s makeup, and Joly, Bosseut, and Musichetta have all texted that they’re almost to the apartment with pasta dishes, patisseries, and  _ papier-mache  _ decorations.

“Goodness, R, don’t worry about it, we’ll be fine,” Jehan says, pulling bottle after bottle of champagne from the refrigerator. “Everyone’s arriving already, it’s too late to bother.”

“No way, nope, I ordered them and I’m going to get them. I got pistachio flavored ones, I’m not just leaving those babies for someone else. I’ll be back in an hour. Where’s my wallet?”

Jehan just sighs. “I’m pretty sure it’s on the kitchen counter. See you soon.”

Grantaire grabs his wallet and bolts for the door, stopping short as it swings open and he’s confronted with cold air and the face of --

“Enjolras?”

Enjolras just looks at him, his mouth hanging open. He’s wearing a blue sweater. His hair is shorter and his eyes are as beautiful as ever. He looks about as shocked as Grantaire feels.

“What’s - Enj?” says the brown-haired man behind him. “Everything okay?”

Enjolras closes his mouth. “Yeah,” he says, not looking away from Grantaire. “It’s amazing.”

He steps inside, he’s right in front of Grantaire, he’s  _ right there.  _ Somehow they’re away from the door, the brown-haired man has another nervous-looking guy behind him and they’re introducing themselves to Jehan, they have baguettes and balloons --

“Grantaire?” whispers Enjolras. “What - how did you get here?”

“I’m friends with Jehan and Cosette, they’re hosting. How did you end up here?” Grantaire whispers back, not trusting his voice. 

“I’m friends with Marius, we’re - we’re partners at a law firm.” Enjolras reaches out and puts his hand, dream-like, on Grantaire’s shoulder. “Oh my God. Oh my  _ God. _ ”

Grantaire swallows, shifts, takes the plunge. “Can I - can I hug you?”

Enjolras immediately steps forward and wraps his arms around Grantaire and only then does Grantaire realize that he’s trembling, he’s actually trembling --

“It’s good to see you,” whispers Enjolras, so softly that Grantaire almost misses it, and he closes his eyes against Enjolras’s sweater.

“Yeah. Yeah, I missed you too,” whispers Grantaire. 

Jehan clears their throat somewhere behind him, and he pulls away, turning to face the three inquisitive faces behind him. 

“Is this - ?” begins the brown-haired man.

Enjolras beams, wrapping an arm around Grantaire’s shoulders, keeping him close, and by that simple gesture, Grantaire is  _ fucked.  _ “This is Grantaire, we met when we were here last summer. Grantaire, this is Combeferre and Marius.”

“Hi,” says Grantaire hoarsely. “Nice to meet you.”

“R,” begins Jehan sweetly. “I know you were going to go get the macaroons, but there’s going to be quite a few boxes. Maybe Enjolras could go with you and help you carry them?”

Grantaire opens his mouth, but Enjolras beats him to it. “Of course, I’d love to help.”

By the varying expressions he can see, they’re not fooling a single person in the room, but after a moment’s silence, Combeferre turns to Jehan and asks what else he can do to help, and Marius takes a seat on the couch, looking pale and terrified.

“We can take Combeferre’s car,” offers Enjolras. Grantaire still can’t believe he’s actually here in the room.

“It’ll probably take longer to get there if we drive,” he says. “I was just going to take the Metro, if you’re okay with that.”

“I love taking the Metro,” says Enjolras, then turns pink.

Grantaire laughs, and the tension breaks. “Come on,” he says, taking Enjolras’s hand and pulling him towards the door.

  
  
  
  
  


Enjolras lets himself be pulled down the stairs of the Metro, follows Grantaire’s lead and listens to him explain all about Jehan and how he knows Cosette, nodding along and drinking in how Grantaire’s eyes light up, how his mouth quirks into a smile, how he laughs. He’s been starving.

Grantaire buys them both Metro tickets, and while they’re waiting for the train, Enjolras ventures the question, “Are you living in Paris now?” He almost doesn’t want to hear the answer: having Grantaire taken away  _ again  _ would almost be more than he could bear.

Grantaire turns beautiful, trusting eyes to meet his and smiles. “Yeah, I am.”

“Good. That’s - that’s good, then,” stammers Enjolras.

Grantaire smiles wider. “You’re staying here, too, then, I take it?”

Enjolras nods. The train is coming; he hears it echoing through the tunnel, but he can’t wait. “Grantaire, do you - do you think we - are you otherwise - ”

Grantaire laughs, lifting their intertwined hands to his lips and kissing Enjolras’s hand. “Let’s get through this party,” he says softly. “Get your friend engaged. And then maybe we could get dinner and pick up where we left off, yeah?”

Enjolras nods and nods, pulling his hand out of Grantaire’s grip to throw his arms around him, the wind from the incoming train whipping around them. 

The train slows; people get off and on, and Enjolras still can’t bring himself to let go of Grantaire. Grantaire doesn’t seem to mind. A woman’s voice announces the train’s imminent departure, and he pulls back slightly, but Grantaire’s muffled voice says from somewhere below him, “Next one’s in seven minutes, ‘s fine,” and Enjolras pulls him closer again.

“Okay,” he says into the messy black curls. “Sounds good to me.”

Grantaire tilts his head up at that, looks him in the eye and smiles, and Enjolras leans down and kisses that mouth, kisses Grantaire hard and deep and mindless right here on this Metro platform at 19h on a Thursday, and everything slams into place.

Cosette says yes, of course, because she’s an angel and she loves the weird-ass dork that is Marius Pontmercy. He’s shaking hard enough when he asks her to marry him that Grantaire is satisfied he knows how lucky he is. He munches on a macaroon, Enjolras a warm and constant heat next to him on the couch. Their fingers are still intertwined. 

And as Cosette and Marius turn to face the huge group of people who have all gathered to celebrate them, Enjolras turns to Grantaire, but he doesn’t need to say anything; Grantaire can read it in his face, and he leans in to seal the future he sees with a kiss. 


End file.
